First Salvo

by Charles D. Taylor

  It was too much for him. He turned to Ryng, saluting with his fingers at the edge of his eyebrow. “I apologize, comrade. These men are not ready for inspection. I will have them shot immediately.”

  It was good sport. Ryng appreciated the twinkle in Denny’s eyes. Denny Bush was always the one to break up the party when they were ashore, or to find the bright side and loosen up the others when an operation neared the flash point. He was the type that cemented a group. Ryng commanded naturally, led by example, but his willingness to let Denny down made him even more of a leader in the men’s eyes. Every leader needed a Denny Bush.

  “Very well, comrade,” he answered, returning the salute with an even more exaggerated one of his own. “Shoot them. It’s the only solution.”

  They were now outfitted in the Black Beret uniform of the Soviet Naval Infantry. That would allow them to get close enough to the planes to carry out their attack. The bombers that were on the runway had to be destroyed and the field left inoperable, and this would scare the ship out of the harbor. It was Harry Winters’s job to make sure it never came back. Next, they would destroy the remaining decoy torpedoes and eliminate any Black Berets in their way. Ryng had no illusions about taking on an entire marine platoon with four men, so the final objective was to get the hell out of there.

  Obtaining the uniforms was simple. Though it required an extra effort to insure the clothes were neither damaged nor bloodied, Ryng’s team was skilled in that type of work. They selected privates, men who would have no command responsibilities and wouldn’t be immediately missed. The team moved fast, for a crack military organization like the Black Berets wouldn’t take long to realize more than one man was missing. The uniforms themselves were impressive, black fatigues with naval insignia and striking black berets with an anchor design on the left side and a red star in front. Each man in his team spoke Russian. Ryng wouldn’t have selected a man who didn’t.

  Ryng checked his watch. Harry would be under that hull by now, preparing his own little surprise. Time to move. They’d already gone over the basics of his plan, and there was nothing complex about it. Their explosives—antipersonnel grenades, Wally’s homemade plastic pipe bombs, and some with time delay fuses—were carried in cloth satchels. Each man carried the Russian automatic rifles they had taken when they appropriated the uniforms. Underneath were their personal weapons.

  A formidable little force, if I do say so myself, Bernie thought. Not big, but I’ve worked with them enough to know they’re each worth four or five average infantrymen and maybe three Black Berets apiece. He shrugged inwardly. We have the advantage of surprise. Maybe five to one will be acceptable.

  “Let’s go.”

  Nothing else was necessary. No instructions. Each could hold his own and look out for the other guy at the same time.

  They passed through what Ryng decided must have been the town square when it wasn’t buried in snow. The best approach was the confident one. Look like you’re heading somewhere important, following instructions. Head there as fast as possible, acting as if there’s no time to pass the time of day with anyone, and don’t look back!

  No one bothered them. One of the guards at the warehouse by the harbor waved and shouted a friendly greeting as they passed. Ryng returned the wave and muttered something about stopping on their way back for a smoke.

  As they came abreast of the maintenance building, where the off-loaded decoys were apparently stored, Ryng spotted an open vehicle. The keys were in the ignition. “We’ll borrow that when we’re getting the hell out of here.” He pointed at Denny. “You drive.” Over his shoulder to the others, he added with a grin, “And why don’t you all try to be careful and not blow the damn thing up. I don’t feature running all the way back with a platoon of marines on my heels.”

  “Makes sense,” Denny agreed nonchalantly. He winked at Ryng. “Maybe I ought to take the keys now.”

  “Don’t worry about the keys, my friend. Just make sure you drop anyone who wants to take it.” Then to the others, “We’ll wander over by the shed and get an idea how many are inside. And I want to know exactly where those aircrews are.” There were now three bombers pulled up one behind the other on the field. “They know how to shoot too. Rick, you find them for me. They can’t be far. The crews last night were supervising the placing of those decoys on the wings, so these will probably want to also.”

  There were six Black Berets, each armed with the AK-74s, inside the shed where the decoys were stored. Another dozen, unarmed, were preparing them for loading. Wally made a mental note that their weapons were stacked nearby. Rick found the aircrews in the rear of the building, relaxing at a long table over coffee and cigarettes. He saw nothing to indicate they were armed. That made eighteen marines, six of whom would have to be dispatched immediately, leaving twelve who would make trouble within seconds if they were allowed to pick up anything that would shoot. Ryng knew they could save the aircrews until last, but they couldn’t take them for granted.

  Back outside, Ryng explained, “We’re going to wait until they start loading those two bombers. That’ll get the crews out here and the coolies farther away from their guns. When I give the word, Wally and I will hit the shed. All I want to do is hold it long enough to blow the decoys. Denny, you and Rick handle the ones out here. Don’t give them the slightest chance. More often than not, those flyers have pistols or other survival weapons in their flight suits. Take them first, then the work party. Then get those explosives inside the planes. I want them burning from the inside out. Then we’ll scatter some time-delay grenades to keep their cleanup crews busy for a while—can’t let them reopen the field,” he added.

  “Sounds simple,” remarked Bush.

  “Very,” agreed Ryng, “if you believe no one else is going to come running as soon as the shooting starts.”

  TOM CARLETON

  An overhead speaker in the Yorktown’s pilothouse crackled into life. “Permission granted to detach for maneuvering exercises. Request you maintain standard ECM and long-range AA guards per my Op Order 12-2. Over.”

  “Roger. I thank you. Out.” Tom Carleton handled the transmission himself, since the maneuvering exercises were for no one other than him. The man he relieved hours earlier had assured him that his OODs were superb ship handlers, so it was apparent that only Yorktown’s new captain needed to be qualified in handling the cruiser.

  “This is Captain Carleton. I have the conn,” he called out to the bridge watch, following the Navy’s time-honored tradition. The acknowledgment echoed back to him, then he said, “Right standard rudder… come to course one zero zero.” He eased his well-fed bulk out of the captain’s chair and moved calmly about the pilothouse to refamiliarize himself with the myriad dials and displays.

  Before putting his ship through her paces, he would take her about five miles outside the perimeter of the formation. The process wouldn’t be a long one. Carleton had commanded ships before, and he was a superb ship handler—any ship, any sea conditions. His purpose was simply to get the feel of Yorktown, to know before he gave an order how she would respond, how quickly she could accelerate, how she reacted in tight turns at high speeds. He had to know her personally not only under combat conditions, but also in close quarters with other U.S. ships.

  Each vessel had a personality of its own. Though they were built following the same specifications, they were as different as human beings, each rudder biting just a tad differently, each mighty engine with its own quirk, each hull taking the sea with slight aberrations. Very few men could sense such minute differences. Most who could were commanding officers. Carleton was at home when he could feel a ship’s personality through his feet or identify with her sounds through his pillow as he slept at night. But now there was little time to understand Yorktown, for everything pointed to the fact that she might have to fulfill her design obligations any hour now.

  There were engine controls on the bridge. With a flick of the wrist, the powerful gas turbines could accelerate
the ship instantly, the only limiting force being the drag of the water against her hull. Carleton first put the engines through their paces, increasing speeds slowly, then faster, then backing down, then forward again, full speed. He watched her wake, he felt her talk to him through his feet, and he learned very quickly how she would answer him.

  Then he toyed with her rudders, turning sharply one way, then another, making Z’s and O’s, selecting various speeds—even backing down halfway through a turn. Such an action might be needed to avoid a collision or even be the last chance to confuse a homing torpedo, at least enough so that it might detonate in Yorktown’s wake rather than her engine room. He felt her cant as he increased her rudder angle, estimating in his own mind how she would respond when the seas were twenty feet and green water was breaking over her bow.

  He spent over an hour gamboling about the Mediterranean, enjoying a luxury that he might not again have the opportunity for. She was magnificent! Yorktown outperformed everything he’d read in the designer’s specs and the sea trials. Now it was time to go back to business as usual. Grudgingly, he returned the conn to the OOD and sat comfortably back in his captain’s chair, his hands folded happily over his ample belly. For a moment, a very short one, he thought about his wife’s cooking—it was almost as dear to him as she was. He imagined that, if he ever got a soft shore billet, that would be it! Lucille’s food would fatten him up and they’d retire him permanently! He dozed off contentedly.

  THE CRIMEA, USSR

  A couple of hours before first light, Henry Cobb was paddled ashore northeast of Yalta, up the coast toward Alushta. Lassiter had shaken his hand, cuffing him playfully on the side of the head before Cobb went over the side into the rubber craft. It hadn’t been necessary for Lassiter to repeat it as many times as he had, but he had to assure Cobb that he would be back in the same spot in less than twenty-four hours, then once more twenty-four hours later. If there was no Cobb by then, then the mission was a failure. Henry Cobb would be considered a casualty—an unreported casualty.

  Cobb scurried up the hillside through the undergrowth to the winding road that led through the villages toward Yalta. A sliver of moon hung low in the sky, and the night was clear and black. He needed very little light to find his way. The track he would follow was embedded in his memory. Days before, in the map room in Washington, he had pieced together the satellite photos himself, recording each step he intended to take. If he’d had the slightest doubt about a potential obstacle in his path, he had had the photo blown up until he was sure what it was. Or if still hesitant, he would call over one of the photo interpreters and ask his opinion.

  His was a photographic memory in many ways. But as Dave Pratt had once pointed out, they were very strange ways. Cobb’s mastery of languages was incredible, right down to his ability to immerse himself in local dialect. He could have crossed a minefield blindfolded once he had the opportunity to study its layout. The structure of Kremlin hierarchy, the layout of each office, and the names of each individual could have been committed to memory in an amazingly short time span. Pratt often said that Henry could have made a fortune if his mind had been channeled in the proper direction, but the prospect of making money had never occurred to Cobb.

  He followed the dirt road for a short distance, mentally checking off the identifying features he’d selected days earlier. Turning into the hills on a path that appeared to have been a goat track, he began an easy climb, now heading in the direction of the moon sliver that was hovering just over his objective.

  Below him stretched the Black Sea, occasional lights bobbing in the distance signifying fishing boats. Farther away he could see the glow of lights in the sky, hinting at a large city, Yalta. This was where the gentry of the Communist Party came to play in the summer—senior officials, scientists, managers, prominent Party members, and, most important, the generals and admirals. Their dachas were scattered over the hillsides that looked down into the warm, blue waters of the Black Sea. This part of the Crimea was the playground of those who made the USSR tick.

  His objective was the dacha of General Keradin, the head of the Strategic Rocket Forces of the Soviet Union, that element of the Soviet Army that controlled the ICBMs. With an order from one man, Keradin, the most terrifying attack mankind had ever known, and perhaps the last it ever experienced, would be launched. This man was so powerful, so respected by those few who were senior to him, that he could come and go as he pleased. And in the summer he chose to spend much of his time at his dacha in the Crimea, less than two hours flying time from Moscow. It didn’t really matter where Keradin chose to locate himself, for the immense power of his command could be exercised in split seconds from wherever he happened to be.

  General Keradin’s dacha was not only his escape but his hobby. The sweet dessert wines of the Soviet Crimea were his first love, his way of escaping the terrible responsibility of his position. The hillsides sweeping up and to the north were covered with vineyards that faced the Black Sea and the summer sun. Though the dacha and its many guest rooms were designed to house a staff ready to launch missiles at a moment’s notice, the real center of the estate was the wine-making barn, the heart and soul of Keradin’s obsession.

  It was Keradin’s infatuation with wines that had precipitated a crash course in the art of winemaking for Henry Cobb. Whisked by a military jet to an Air Force base north of San Francisco, Cobb was met by the man who would be his teacher over the next five days. Very little surprised Cobb. Yet his host, the scion of a successful, family-owned vineyard, consistently astonished him during those days. As he struggled to acquire the knowledge that had come to one man in a lifetime, Cobb also learned that hatred spans generations. His mentor proudly acknowledged working for the CIA whenever he was in Europe promoting his rapidly growing industry. Cobb would later reflect that he learned more than he bargained for about his quarry during his whirlwind education.

  The dacha was remarkably similar to his host’s homestead in the Napa Valley. White plastered walls reflected the sun and allowed the inside to remain cool even on the hottest days. A veranda stretched much of the length of the building so that the inhabitants could come out to socialize in the sun or find enough privacy to be on their own. The only real difference was the many individual balconies on the second floor, much like a tacky motel, Cobb thought. These were where the staff slept, each with his own room, a nice gesture by Keradin to keep his people happy.

  There was also a security force. It was composed of military intelligence people from the GRU, and they were very good. The CIA also reported that Keradin was an extremely private man who did not appreciate the trappings of the military when he escaped to the Crimea. Moscow was one world, his dacha the other. And in the latter he insisted that the GRU maintain a low profile. No man could relax in an armed camp, and Keradin felt that his vineyard, far from the mainstream, was not a place that would be easily targeted by an enemy. He felt secure.

  Cobb circled to the north, above the highest vineyards. Within yards of his final goal, he found the rock outcroppings that had been so prominent in the photos. It was not above the fence that surrounded the vineyards, but it slanted upward enough, almost like the lip of a ski jump, to make it the weakest point on the perimeter.

  His one weapon was a razor-sharp knife in his boot. With this, he was able to cut a sturdy sapling from a nearby stand of trees. Carefully, he sliced off the branches one by one, close to the trunk. Then just as prudently, he smeared the whitened scars on the bark with dirt. After he was over the fence, there would be no way to dispose of it, and he wanted nothing that would attract the attention of the guards.

  Back on top of the outcropping, he tested the strength of the sapling, making sure it would take his weight. To the southeast, he could make out the faint glow over the Black Sea that presaged the sun and a new day. Planting the staff in the hard ground below, he bounced lightly on his toes for a second, then vaulted gracefully into the air. It was not really a pole vault. He wanted just e
nough height to clear the fence, just enough distance to land far enough beyond the sensing devices that he knew were implanted two yards beyond the fence. As he reached the apex of his leap, he very deliberately cast the sapling backward into some rye grass growing a few yards from the fence. With luck, the grass and the dirt he had rubbed into the cuts in the bark would hide it from curious eyes.

  As he landed precisely on his toes, he rolled forward before his heels could make full impact on the turf. Touching the ground first with his right shoulder, he rolled twice in an effort to absorb the impact and avoid setting off an oversensitive device near the fence.

  He was in! Remaining on his knees, his eyes searched in every direction, using the faint horizon as a backdrop to ensure there were no guards nearby. He’d been right. The flashlights he’d counted from outside represented the only men who were there. As the CIA report had stated, they felt secure enough on this hillside that there was no effort to make the vineyard impenetrable, no anticipation that someone like Cobb would seek entry in this manner. Very unlike the GRU, he thought, remembering the difficulty he once had breaking their security in Moscow.

  Now creeping into the safety of a row of vines, all he could do was wait for the sun to rise, for the workers to arrive so that he could mix among them and move about as if he were one of the peasant laborers. He knew the basic location of every building and every path, and the purposes of most of them. However, there were some buildings to the west, in the lower part of the fields, that mystified him. He had to quickly develop a feel for the movement of the day, the habits of the workers, the daily customs and routines of the dacha that its inhabitants followed without thinking. Acclimatization was one of Cobb’s first steps wherever he went, and it was often what saved his neck in the first hours in a new place.